But He Won't Let Me
by Don't Believe a Word
Summary: [Pre-RENT] Mark's soliloquy following April's suicide and Roger's diagnosis. No lovely thoughts here.


**Title**: But He Won't Let Me.  
**On**: RENT, of course.

**Pairing**: None. Roger/Mark undertones, but nothing really to it.

**Notes and Disclaimer**: If we all start somewhere, this is where I begin, on an order from a friend to write something to entertain her. I guess this isn't too entertaining, but I wrote it, nonetheless, in one foul swoop. I apologize for any grammatical or focus issues; I don't like re-reading what I write for editing purposes. In any case, I hope you like it. It's pre-RENT, but you'll probably know that soon enough.

I don't own anything. I'm not the brilliant man that Jonathan Larson was, but a tired boy with nothing better to do than analyze his characters. Please don't sue me. I couldn't pay, anyway.

* * *

This is unreal.

This is something out of a movie or a soap opera. This is the second act of a three-act play or the end of a Shakespearian tragedy. This is when Dorothy realizes that she's never going to get home, when Alice really _does_ lose her head, when no amount clapping hands is going to bring Tinkerbell back to life. But nobody's supposed to really get hurt, because this isn't real. This is the part of the nightmare where I wake up and choke and gasp and run the back of my hand over my eyes, realizing that I'm crying over a dream.

Except right now, all I've got is the choking and the gasping. And the tears.

Any time now, I should be kicking off the covers and climbing down the ladder, leaving the room that I share with Roger and April, looking for Collins, who, sure enough, is kicked back on the couch commenting on his students' term papers. Collins will laugh and muss up my hair and tell me that I need my mother, but then smile and scoot over and listen while I recount the events of my dream, affairs that seem suddenly foolish when relayed on the ancient couch, under the Christmas lights overhead, to a steadfast and caring friend.

Or I'll wake Roger. I'll crawl over to his mattress and whisper for him until he wakes with a grunt, tossing a sock or a pillow or a balled-up shirt at me and threatening, half-asleep, to toss me over the edge of the loft and to the floor below if I wake him again.

When you know Roger like I do, this is a consolation. When you know Roger like I do, you know that five minutes later, once I'm fitfully entwined in my own sheets again, there will be a hand shaking me by the shoulder and a low, tired voice asking just what had happened to wake me when everyone else in his right mind was trying to sleep.

And that's comforting. He's there, just like Collins is there, in his own way, to be my friend and to abate my fears. And he'll always be there; that's just how things are.

But not now. Not ever again.

Collins is on the phone with God only knows who. 911. A hospital. A therapist. Roger's parents. April's parents. A funeral home. A support group. The police. The church. It doesn't matter. Collins is stronger than the rest of us. Collins has learned how to cope.

Roger's alone now, shut up in our room, the ladder with him, letting everyone know with his stomping and screaming and sobbing that he doesn't want to be bothered. Roger, who's young and healthy and strong and fierce, Roger, who's jocular, brave, passionate and unwavering, is shut up in our room, weeping and breaking down into a frightened shadow of a young man who suddenly looks a lot like me. But he doesn't want me to help him. He doesn't want me to listen and to console. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want me. He doesn't need me.

But the hot tears in my eyes, the lump in my throat, and the sorrowful beating of my own heart in my ears tell me that I need him. As I press my forehead to the cool iron of the fire escape and sob, as my bare feet hang below me in the mild June air, as I wring the bars until my knuckles whiten and my heart beats in my fingertips, I know that I need him.

I want to be there for him, and him for me. I want to crawl up to the side of his bed and hear what a baby I am, getting all worked up over something so tiny. I want him to push on my shoulder and tell me not to cry, that it's embarrassing to live in a room with a weepy mama's boy. I want for him to not mean it. I want to hug him and hold him close so that I know I'm okay, so that I can hear how wild his heartbeat is running because he knows that I'm scared.

I want to be able to smile and ease the pain that he's feeling. I want to be able to tell him that everything will get better, that he just has to keep his chin up and things will work out for him. For everybody. I want him to know that I know he's afraid. I want him to know that I want to be there for him, that I want to help, that I want to be the friend to him that he's been to me. I want to be his friend.

But he won't let me.

I want to wave my hand and make April come back, to snap my fingers and make this night vanish. I want to make needles and heroin and blood and suicide and AIDS and death disappear. All of them vanished.

But I can't.

So I'm sitting on the fire escape, shuddering and bawling, exhausted and nauseous, my head swimming and my eyes red with salty tears. I'm hopeless and helpless. I'm useless; Collins is making the phone calls, and I'm crying. I should be up with Roger, crushed against him while he cries and vents. I should be hugging him and consoling him and comforting him. But I'm not.

I can't. He's cut himself off. He's locked himself in. He doesn't want me to help him.

But if he felt for me like I felt for him, if his heart twisted and broke like mine has on hearing him cry, if he loved me like I want to be able to love him, he would need me now.

Just like I need him.

* * *

**Notes**: I promised that I wasn't going to beg for reviews… but…. Please do?

And just so you know: as much as I like Roger/Mark stories, this wasn't supposed to be one. The love here is (for the time) strictly platonic and fraternal. The way I figure it: if I had just witnessed death and my best friend was going to die, I'd be emotional and needy, too.

But, hey… If you want it to be Roger/Mark, then let it. I don't mind.

_Updated to fix a few formatting things, since they bug me._


End file.
